The Precious Gifts I've Stepped All Over
by NuqueerWarhead
Summary: When Max goes to the Alternate Timeline, what happens to the Alternate Max? Ignorant of all this time travel and suddenly dropped in the Main Timeline, Alternate Max is confronted with the painful realization that it wasn't an accident, or a time traveler, or an evil conspiracy that ruined everything. But to see Chloe whole again...


"I know, right? I mean, what's the point of…?" I trail off. What just happened? Where's Victoria? I was just talking to my friends outside. Where the fuck am I?

I'm staring deeply into an old photo of me and Chloe. I don't remember it. In the photo I have braces, so it must've been taken just before I moved away, when I was, what, fourteen?

Right now I'm wearing a red flannel shirt, and ripped jeans. I do not own clothes like this; these are someone else's clothes. I'm sitting on a bed, in a dorm room. It's a lot like my dorm room, but it's decorated differently, and the desk is where the bed should be and the bed is where the desk should be. There are different posters on the walls, a big plant on the floor by the window, and a rabbit in a cage.

The rabbit's cute, with white fur and big, black spots around her (his?) eyes. There's a tray of carrots in front of the cage, so I give her one. She stares at it, not hungry. I check her water bottle. Half full is… enough, right? I don't know shit about rabbits. For example, why the fuck is there one in my room?

Some of my makeup, the plain, boring stuff, is on top of a shelf by the desk, which is weird because I have a drawer for all my makeup. The desk is covered in some science books stacked up in piles, and there's a bunch of hastily scribbled-on post-it notes stuck to the wall. This isn't my laptop. I remember when I went computer shopping with my parents, this is the kind they wanted me to get. I got one with a built-in camera instead because I thought maybe then I'd be brave enough to Skype with Chloe.

Okay, so I'm here in my room instead of talking to Victoria because I blacked out after a raging bender during which I rearranged my furniture and bought new books, a new computer, and a rabbit. Uh-huh. Besides how stupid that is on its own, I'm not high, drunk, or hung-over, and I haven't been since last weekend. And I'm certainly not in a partying mood after what happened yesterday.

Behind me is…

The wall behind me, the entire area over the bed, is covered in pictures of me. Pictures where I'm happy and smiling, pictures where I'm spacing out and doing nothing at all, pictures of me giving a dead-eyed stare directly into the camera as if someone stood over me waiting for me to wake up.

Written under the pictures in thick, black paint is, "Nobody messes with me bitch."

I immediately break for the door, which – despite the fact that clearly someone has drugged me, kidnapped me, dressed me in their clothing, and dumped me in their stalker shrine – is not locked. This is the girls' dorm. This _is_ my room. I look back at the stalker shrine. These are selfies – I took them. But I didn't. I don't recognize a single one.

I sit back down on the bed. What the hell is happening? Deep breaths. Calm down and think, Maxine. Judging by the color of the sunlight coming in through the window, it's the same time of day I thought it was. I check my phone. Right time, right day. No time passed between when I started the sentence I was saying to Victoria outside and when I finished that sentence alone in this room.

I get a text. From Chloe? "hey man. i suck again. sorry i got in your face today and took out my bullshit rage on my best friend."

But I haven't spoken to her today. I haven't spoken to her since I moved back here. I make my response as generic as possible so it seems like I know what she's talking about. "Chloe, I understand. You're going through a lot. We all are."

"we need to stock up on cigs, coffee and candy for an all-nighter. we have to get into rachel and kate detective mode." Rachel and Kate detective mode?

I don't really know what to do here. She seems to actually _want_ to see me, and I did promise we'd hang out when I texted her to tell her I got accepted to Blackwell. "Sweet. I'll be ready."

Okay. She said we're doing an "all-nighter" so I should pack an overnight bag. I don't recognize a single piece of clothing in this drawer. Doesn't matter anymore. Chloe won't care if I'm dressed like… a butch dyke with granny panties. Actually, knowing her sense of humor she'll probably ask me for a lap dance if she sees me in this.

I don't bother emptying my book bag – there's only my camera and that journal that I never write in – I just stuff in a single change of clothes and a toothbrush. So, bag packed, I head out. I don't talk to anyone, I don't look at anyone. There are dozens of missing person posters for Rachel Amber, and they're weathered like they've been hung up a long time, but I know for a fact that they were never here before. Nevertheless, I take a seat at the bus stop without any freaky shit or sudden teleportations happening.

Over the last month, my friends have told me all about Rachel Amber, each story tied to the next by this weird sort of reverent hero worship. She was cool, she was stylish, she was sexy, outgoing, friendly, fun. "Man, Rachel Amber, she was, like, woah…" they say, as if saying her name gave them an instant contact high. She's the kind of girl that, a year and a half ago, I decided I want to be. I started talking to complete strangers while my social anxiety screamed for me to run. I had complete conversations with them about anything, about nothing, about meaningless bullshit. I spent bus rides talking about things I didn't give a shit about just to get to know random-ass people that I was never even going to see again. I made friends with cool kids, losers, cute boys, hot girls, fat accountants, and old ladies. And it was _fun._ I loved it, even the parts where I was so embarrassed I could cry and so nervous I could hurl.

What kind of girl makes friends just for the sake of making friends? What kind of girl gets closer to people just for the sake of getting closer? Everyone had an answer, none of them true. Lies, that they spread when they thought I couldn't hear them. Max Caulfield, they'd say, went out with the hottest guy in school. Max Caulfield, they'd say, had sex with him on the first date. Max Caulfield, they'd say, dumped him the following morning.

And yeah, I did, but not for the reasons that they thought.

I guess that's human nature. You can't see a stranger who's happier and more self-aware than you and just be happy for them. Sure, Maxine Caulfield is out there enjoying her life while I sit paralyzed by indecision and insecurity, but at least I'm nicer/smarter/purer. I could deal with my shit, but it's so much easier to kick her with a double-standard. I'm smarter than she is, because I'm pretending intelligence and friendliness are mutually exclusive. I'm nicer than she is, because I only talk to people I already like. I dream about talking to boys the way she does, but abstinence is a long-distance relationship with Jesus.

In the girls' dorm there's a poster with a pretty, white girl in a pretty, white dress. Her hair is like mine, her face is like mine – a face for an abstinence poster, apparently. She's hanging her head in shame, reaching for a wall to steady herself, failing to hide her tears behind her bangs, lips parted slightly as if to say, "Look how miserable you'll be if you live your life like _that slutbag Maxine Caulfield."_ One "slip up" can destroy your life, says the poster, because being like me is a mistake.

Maybe that poster made me angrier than it should have. Maybe I knew who hung it on the wall. Maybe I called her a "fucking hypocrite slut" and told her to die. And maybe she took my advice by jumping off the roof of the school yesterday.

So what if Kate put up that judgmental abstinence poster in the girls' dorm? So what if she got wasted at a party and made out with a bunch of guys? Even if I still believed she was just an annoying, hypocritical slut… who gives a shit? Some of my best friends are annoying, hypocritical sluts. _I'm_ an annoying, hypocritical slut. Jesus, Kate just wanted to make children's books. She wanted to make children laugh and smile. And we, my friends and I and the whole god damned school, wanted to taunt her, laugh at her, call her names, hurt her. We'd watch that video with the volume loud enough for everyone in the room to hear the sound of Kate drunkenly making out with every boy at the party, and of course we only did this when Kate was in the room with us. What the fuck is wrong with us – wrong with _me?_

Someone's calling my name. That's Chloe's voice. Where –

Rusty-ass truck. Blue hair, beanie. Black dress shirt over punk rock tank top. Tattoos all down her arm.

She shoots me a concerned look – _Chloe,_ concerned for _me_ – before getting out of the car and walking – _walking_ – over to me.

"Hey, Max," she says, like this is a normal fucking thing that's happening. "I know you're angry at me but you don't have to give me the silent treatment."

I lower my hands from my mouth, where they were clamped to keep me from screaming. Must act normal. Must act normal.

"Earth to Max. You okay?"

My voice shakes, "Y-Yeah, I'm just a little, uh…"

"What, you need a hug?"

For whatever the fuck reason, I nod. By the look on her face I realize it was not a serious question. She takes a seat next to me on the bench and –

 _Holy shit!_ She's… she's _real._ She's _hugging_ me.

"Jesus, I didn't mean to scare you," she says. "I think you just set the record for high jump." She backs up, puts her hands on my shoulders to stabilize me, looks me straight in the eye. "The last couple of days have been pretty fucked up. If you need a break or whatever, you can talk to me."

"Okay," I manage.

"I was thinking, after we're done with the detective thing, maybe tomorrow morning we can visit Kate. Sound like a plan?"

And what? See Kate lying in a casket, looking all peaceful, surrounded by her grieving family, who I had a personal hand in fucking over? No. Fuck no. _Fuck. No._ "Okay."

The ride in the truck is… interesting. She's doodled/graffiti'ed over the interior in several places. She breaks every rule they teach in driver ed. Ten or more over the limit, rolling stops, that sign definitely said no turn on red. Knowing, as I do, that she is paralyzed from the neck down after a car crash two years ago, this is _somewhat alarming._

"I don't blame you," she says, "for not keeping in touch at all. You've made up for it a hundred times over."

I don't write as much as I should, and I've only texted a few times recently, but… what kind of vapid, selfish bitch doesn't keep in touch with her best friend _at all?_ That's just awful.

The next part of her apology is faster and more forced, like she's trying to power through it. "And it's not your fault you found those pictures. But they don't mean what you think they mean. Rachel and Frank were not fucking. She wouldn't do that to me."

I found pictures. These pictures had something to do with Rachel (Amber?) and Frank (the scumbag drug dealer?) fucking. Chloe is upset because…? I mean it sounds like an affair. Chloe was with… Frank? Ew, no. Chloe was with Rachel?

"She must've been…" She bangs her hand against the steering wheel. _"Conning him_ or something. But they weren't fucking. She would _never_ betray me like that."

Granted, I barely know what the shit is going on, but there doesn't seem to be much room for alternative explanations. But then, she's pretty confi-

"Ri-ght?" Her voice cracks.

 _Oh_ fuck. I am not ready for this. Shit. Reassuring, what's something reassuring right now? She was mad at me for saying that Rachel was cheating on her and she wants to believe I'm wrong, so, "I, yeah, I'm sorry, too."

The mixture of sadness, anger, and disgust on her face tells me that she doesn't believe what I'm saying, or what she's saying.

"I'm sure there's another explanation," I lie.

The rest of the drive to the drug store is pretty quiet, but when we get there… just watching her get out of the car, just watching her walk, I don't know. She's so… _her._ She's so Chloe. The boots, the hair, the clothes, the swagger, the attitude. This is who she was _meant_ to be. It's so bizarre, seeing the person she _is_ inside. We're walking through the aisles looking for coffee, and I can't take my eyes off her. I need to memorize every little detail so that when I see the real Chloe again, I can show her. She's so beautiful.

I should do something for her, something she's always wanted to but couldn't, and now she can. What does Chloe like? Punk rock. When we were kids she really loved the outdoors, probably more so now. That's really all I know. I go for it. "We should go to, like, an outdoor concert sometime."

She gives me a look. "We kinda have shit to take care of."

"I know," I lie. "When everything's done."

"The whole town's going to shit and that's what you're thinking about?"

What does she mean? "It's important to stay optimistic."

"Uh huh. You're all about truth, justice, and the American way, now." She hands me a bag of coffee. "Let's get snacks."

It's dark when we get back to Chloe's house. I want to stop and take a look around, but it's probably better not to go exploring – I still don't really understand what's going on or how I got here. We're setting up the investigation in her bedroom, and I guess she has some info on her laptop that she needs to print out. While she works at her desk, I have a few moments where I'm not needed.

I really like her room, though it's a bit overwhelming. It's a mess, for starters – clothes, trash, old food, beer bottles, boxes of junk, magazines, CDs… holy shit, a revolver. There's a little TV area with an ancient, bunny-eared TV atop a big spool and one of those floor TV chair things that looks like she got it from a junkyard. The window facing the neighbors' house is blocked by an upside-down American flag that's stained and ripped in places. The walls are covered in posters, drawings on post-it notes, a string of Christmas lights, magazine clippings, pictures, and various phrases that she's painted on.

Right above her bed is written "I can't sleep." That makes me chuckle. Of course Chloe would vandalize her own wall just to pass the time. Why? Fuck you, that's why.

"Think like a man."

"One day your life will flash before your eyes."

"I'd rather have a life of 'oh well's than a life of 'what if's."

"Just gotta let go."

"Everybody lies, no exceptions."

By the window. "Dad is gone. Fuck all shit life."

William left? Maybe Chloe's injury was what kept her parents together the last two years. No, she doesn't have the hybrid. He'd have to have left before the accident would've happened. Why though? They were such a happy family. It doesn't make sense… which is maybe how Chloe feels about it. A painful, senseless divorce might explain some of her anarcho-dyke-ness. Oh, and she's having trouble accepting that Rachel cheated on her. What if William cheated on Joyce? Think like a man, everybody lies? Ouch.

I think if I had to sum up Chloe in one sentence it'd be, "Fuck your rules, fuck you, fuck this, fuck everything." I don't have to look hard to see that she isn't happy. I'd hoped things could be different for her. I _wanted_ things to be different for her… but all that's different is that she can write how angry she is on the wall. I guess that counts for something, though, right?

"Mmph," she says, through a mouthful of jerky stick. She sets it down on her desk and wipes the grease off her hand onto her jeans so she can pass me a small stack of papers. "That's everything from Principal Wells's computer."

The top one is a rough pencil sketch that might've been doodled during a boring class with an inattentive teacher. It's a crowd of bald, oblong, misshapen heads stacked on top of one another. They're all screaming with their mouths open inhumanly wide, probably because of the extra eyes that seem to be bubbling up out of their skin all over their faces. A Blackwell student did this? It must be Nathan – he has a morbid style – but even for him this is dark.

Unless it was Kate.

There's a pair of memos. Nathan reported Rachel Amber to the principal for selling drugs, which is a shitty and hypocritical thing to do. Why would he do that to a friend? Maybe he got busted and he pinned it on her, not really meaning to. I can see why he might panic getting caught dealing; he talks about his father as, like, this unforgiving force of destruction that, with minimal provocation, appears out of nowhere to fuck up your life. Or, it's not so much what he _says_ about his father as what he mutters under his breath when he forgets there are other people in the room with him. He… twitches, too. Once, he invited me and Victoria up to his room to smoke, and I found a gun manual on his pillow. When I asked him about it, he went on this crazy rant about how everyone hates him and eventually he'll have to defend himself. He was screaming in my face by the end of it. Victoria managed to calm him down, get him high. It's impossible to deal with Nathan when he's sober – he just can't deal with the stress and he takes it out on other people. When he's high, though, that stress disappears, and he's kind, fun, and he actually has a sense of humor. It's hard not to feel bad for him when you see how utterly life is crushing the person he really is. That's probably why I forgave him. His apology was pretty sincere, too.

This thing with Rachel, though, this is… disappointing. I don't know. I don't know anything about it. Anyway, his story was backed up by David Madsen, head of Blackwell security. I didn't even know there was a head of Blackwell security; I've certainly never seen one. Then there's a report from Rachel saying the security guy was "following her and taking photographs."

There's a… drawing. It's a large pair of eyes above a big X, ringed by crescent shapes that might be hands or claws, and a couple dozen smaller eyes floating around the page. It looks a bit like a bird slammed face-first into a windshield at highway speed. The rest of the page is filled in with the same words repeated over and over: Rachel in the Dark Room.

A scan of a crumpled note, in Nathan's handwriting. "David M. always asks what's going on in my head. David M. always helps me follow those he follows." What the fuck does that mean?

A disciplinary warning report. Nathan has "disrupted various classes" with "erratic behavior patterns that may need supervision beyond Blackwell's ability." There's a reply from Nathan's parents, denying everything and demanding that the report be expunged, with a copy sent to them, or else they take Nathan out of school and cut their donations to Blackwell. There's also an incident report saying that he has a "pattern of outbursts and confrontations followed by remorse and repentance." It suggests that "his parents remove him from the school and place him under expert psychological supervision."

This goes way beyond anything Victoria's told me. I had no idea that Nathan was struggling this much. According to that incident report, he's not even getting any treatment. And on top of that, when the school actually tried to get him the help he needs, his dad covered it up. What kind of sick psychopath is Sean Prescott? He's not just negligently ignoring his son's issues; he's actively preventing them from being treated. He's so committed to fucking his son over that he _threatened_ the people who were trying to help.

Oh my god. How stupid am I? Nathan has a gun manual because Nathan has a gun. How willfully ignorant was I not to have seen that? He might as well have waved it in my face with a red flag and flashing alarms.

With all those issues, and those behavioral problems, and his drug use, it's pretty obvious why he has it. But not to Sean Prescott, who denounces the "outrageous allegations," withdraws funding, demands reinstatement with a _written apology,_ and says he hopes that the school's judgment hasn't been influenced by "the tragic event involving Miss Marsh."

Of course it was influenced by Kate's suicide, you deluded fuck. Nathan is struggling, depressed, untreated, unsupported, acting out, and _he has a gun._ What do you, Sean, fucking think is going to happen?

Nathan is going to kill himself. The people who are supposed to support him, help him, love him, protect him, keep him safe, and fucking know better, are ignoring all the completely obvious signs, all the completely obvious dangers, and choosing instead to make the problem worse. It's _exactly_ what happened to Kate.

Sean Prescott could put a stop to this. The school could put a stop to this, if they'd just fucking stand up for Nathan. Any god damned one of them could save Nathan's life.

I'm worried about him, this is serious, and I'll have to talk it over with Victoria when I get back from whatever this is. But for now…

For now I should try to focus on Chloe. She's gathering our evidence – printing out copies of her files and digging out flyers, notes, and photos hiding in the clutter around her room. If I can't help her make sense of this she'll know something's up.

We've got a bunch of things in no particular order. I don't really see any connections, but after enough time staring at them I at least manage to get them organized into a few themes: Rachel Amber's disappearance, something to do with her and Frank the drug dealer, the two most recent Vortex Club parties, the Prescott family, Blackwell, a detailed account of Kate's whereabouts and pictures of her from suspicious vantage points, and a similar stalker trail for Nathan. If I'm going to piece this together I'll need Chloe's help. While I pretend I'm working, every few minutes I throw out a roundabout question to get more information out of her without making it seem like I don't know what I'm doing. But because she expects me to know what she's talking about her answers are less helpful than I'd hoped. Gradually I get the sense that her theory is this – Rachel disappeared against her will, the situation with Kate was intentionally manipulated to kill her, and Blackwell and the Prescott family are coconspirators behind both events.

Despite everything written on her wall, Chloe saw what happened to Rachel and Kate and didn't see the obvious truth: people – me, Rachel, and everyone – are assholes who'll use you, lie to you, leave you, hurt you for fun, and push you off a roof. She'd rather think some nebulous, sinister conspiracy is stalking her than admit that the people she trusted are just as fucking awful as everyone else. I don't know how she manages to believe something so simultaneously cynical, optimistic, paranoid, and naïve.

It's not the blue hair and tattoos that make Chloe, it's the loyalty and the love and the trust. I wish I could still feel those things. Sure, I work just fine if you slap on enough duct tape, but I'm broken down the middle. Chloe has enough cracks to look like a spider web and she barely functions, but she's in one piece. Whole.

At her desk, Chloe is leaning back, one leg folded atop the other, one arm up on the back of her chair. Her blue haired head rests on her shoulder, her familiar brown roots making a messy zigzag down her part. As she goes for a long chug of energy drink, I see etched on her arm the big, heart-shaped, red flowers and human skull sitting in a spiral of red ribbon and tangled, thorny stems. And the lacy, black bra exposed under the armpit of her tank top.

If she were the stranger I met on the bus, what would I say to her? I love your tattoos. I've been thinking of getting one, is there a place you'd recommend to have it done? So, uh, are you, like, in a band or something? Oh, yeah, I bet you hear that all the time. What bands _do_ you like? Maybe we could go to a concert sometime. No, too forward. Record store? Yeah, I'll have to check that out. Maybe I'll see you there sometime. Hey, listen, my stop's coming up, but I had a lot of fun talking to you. Maybe we could exchange emails or phone numbers or something?

It always surprises me how willing people are to make friends with me, the complete stranger. They're scared of making the first move, and they're not confident enough to assume that a random on the bus would like them. That's how I used to be. But now, I make the first move, I make the assumption, and with the hard part done the universal desperation for friendship shows itself.

In her letters to me Chloe always encouraged me to be more outgoing, take more risks, to find something that might make me happy, do it, and see what happens. When I'm being honest with myself I can admit that her words changed the course of my life – she's the reason I am the way I am. She can't get out of the house much, and when she does people don't see past her condition. She's so lonely, and I don't know if it makes it better or worse to know that she found love here. And what about me? Did I ever see this beautiful woman hidden in Chloe? Did I ever see past her condition?

No. I wrote, what, five times in two years? Why? Why not every week? Why not every day? She would have loved that, so why didn't I? Would I have hated to hear from Chloe more often? Of course not. The truth is, whenever I sat down to write her a letter – any of the hundred letters I wrote and mailed directly to the trashcan – I felt like I was hurting her.

Hey Chloe. You told me to live life to the fullest, so I am. I met all these cool, new people who wouldn't even talk to you, and together we hang out and do things that you can't. And oh, I went on a road trip with my happy, tragedy-free family, here's a selfie. See, look at all the fun I'm having that you can't have, look at all the joy I'm feeling that you don't feel. Oh, after that? Well, I was tired, so I sat at home and watched TV. I wanted to go out and fulfill my dreams, but then I was like, nah, I'll do it later. That's what I do most of the time, really, sit at home, do nothing of consequence and step all over the precious gifts I have that you dream of having.

No matter how hard I tried, when it came time to sum up my life in writing… I felt like I wasn't good enough for her. But she wouldn't think so. She only ever wanted me to be happy, and for me to want her in my life.

These aren't surprising revelations. I've known them all along, and this isn't even the first time I've admitted them to myself. My failure to be there for Chloe is a result of my inability to get over my bullshit insecurities.

When I look at her now, none of that matters. I'll do anything to have Chloe back in my life, even if I have to face her and own up to what a shitty friend I am.

I exhale slowly towards the ceiling, as if I can make my stress float away, and I quickly dry my eyes. If she turns around right now she'll probably notice what a wreck I am. Keep it together, Maxine. Maybe I need a minute – I'm going to go and splash some water on my face.

The blue hair dye in the bathroom cabinet catches my eye; I'll have to remember this brand and shade for the real Chloe. Taking in my reflection, I really don't look so good. It's clear I haven't gotten much sleep recently – that I was out all night last night is clear on my face.

I haven't checked my texts or messages in a while, have I? I normally stay on top it, but I usually check again just before bed, to help me fall asleep if nothing else. Normally I'd expect a dozen texts from Victoria by now, but for some reason she's not even in my phone. There are messages from two different private numbers: one is Nathan's father, regarding my "attempts to slander and blackmail" Nathan, and the other is more straightforward threat from Nathan himself. There are a ton of texts from Warren, which is weird because we're not that close. I'll go through his later. An old one from Dad. A couple from Mom, who called me "our Blackwell hero." Chloe's been calling me that too. What does it mean? All that's left is… Kate. I have never texted Kate. What could we possibly have talked about? "Fuck you, Max. You and your friends should be ashamed of your inhuman lack of compassion which has made my life a living hell?" I wish she had said that. I'd have deserved it.

Here goes.

 _Max. Thank from my heart for reaching out to me on the roof. You're the only one who was there for me at school, the only one who truly cared. I have to believe you were sent to give me hope. You did so much more than that. My father is grateful as well. You'll always be in our prayers. Love and Blessings,_

 _Your friend Kate._

Sent this morning. Kate's alive. Kate's alive!

I feel the elation bubbling up through my body, but when it reaches my mouth it tastes like vomit.

Thank you for reaching out to me on the roof. You were the only one who cared. You were sent to give me hope. Your friend Kate.

We all laughed at her. We all made fun of her. We all said cruel things to her. It's not my fault any more than anyone else's. What difference would it have made if I hadn't joined in, when everyone was doing it?

It would have made all the difference. I could have made all the difference, and I didn't. I chose not to. All she needed was one friend, one person who cared. If I had been her friend, she'd be alive right now. Whether she lived or died came down to me and me alone.

I'm on the floor, back to the door, face buried in the crook of my arm. No one will walk in, no one will hear me cry. I'm here, alone with the knowledge that _I killed Kate Marsh._

I can't breathe the way I'm sobbing. My body is shaking so hard I can hear the doorknob rattling.

I.

Killed.

Kate.

Marsh.

She didn't deserve it. She never deserved any of it. And it's all my fault it killed her. That's the kind of person I am, isn't it? Not this Blackwell hero. I'm the kind of person who sees an innocent girl suffering and laughs at her. The world is a worse place because I exist in it. Or, because Kate doesn't. I should be dead and not her.

Maybe I am dead. Maybe this is Hell. I haven't been there for Chloe, I killed Kate, and now I'm in Hell, forced to watch them be perfect and happy despite me. Yeah, I was talking to Victoria, and then suddenly everything was different, because I had an aneurysm and I'm dead and in Hell.

How do I make up for this? How do I live with this? Why should I even get up off this floor? I could feed the hungry, shelter the homeless, find true love, have a happy life with a beautiful woman and beautiful children, become the greatest photographer in history, save a disabled orphan's kitten from a burning building, win the Nobel god damned Peace Prize, and still die a _murderer._

I'm staring intensely at a dead fly on the floor. It isn't crushed or squashed, just keeled over on its back, dead, wings out, body turning blue-green. I might as well do the same thing. Rot.

All those inspirational quotes that people like to put on posters and spread on social media about how a single person can make a difference in the world… I guess I never saw the dark side, never realized I had the power to ruin people's lives forever.

 _You're the only one who was there for me at school, the only one who truly cared._

Blackwell hero. Could've been me. If I had seen how my actions were hurting her, how she was suffering…

Nathan. Nathan is suffering the way Kate was. Chloe is suffering too.

I'm not the Blackwell hero who saved Kate's life. I never can be. But maybe I have a chance to be there for my friends. Because of Kate… I know I'm responsible, I know I have the power to make a difference, and I know the only thing stopping me is me. I killed her, and there isn't a damn thing I can do to change it, but maybe I don't have to fail her twice.

I brush the bathroom floor dust off the side of my face. It'll take me a few more minutes to wash the redness out. I try not to look in the mirror again.

When I reenter Chloe's bedroom she immediately turns to face me.

"You okay?" she asks.

"Yeah," I lie. "I know we said we'd do an all-nighter, but I'm, uh…"

"Come on, Super-Max, I can't do this without you." She says it light-heartedly with a smile, but it can't hide her concern.

"I'll be more useful tomorrow, I promise."

She's going to keep working.

With a goal in mind, I manage to fall asleep in her bed.

When I wake up, I'm looking at a photo album full of happy pictures of William, Joyce, Chloe, and me. It's early morning, and I'm pulled up close to Chloe's bedside. She's still asleep, her beautiful face perfected by sunlit, brown hair and the happiest, most carefree smile. All the shit that she has to deal with, and _I_ can make her smile like that?

For years when I thought of her I felt sadness, guilt, anger, regret. Never again. From now on, _that smile_ is the only thing I'll feel when I think about the woman who is more important to me than anything.

Why did I ever avoid her, when she's all I ever wanted? Why was I ever afraid of her, when she's the one who taught me to face my fears?

I've made so many mistakes. Some of them hurt other people, some of them hurt Chloe, and all of them hurt me. But I'll be a better person for Chloe. I _am_ a better person because of Chloe.

There is absolutely nowhere I'd rather be right now than at Chloe's side. This is where I'm _meant_ to be. With her.

"Hey, Chloe?"

I owe her so many thanks. So many apologies.

"Chloe."

So many answers.

"Chloe?"

Why won't she wake up?

* * *

 _Author's Note: A big pile of thanks goes to Lyta Halifax for all her helpful advice. She's the best._


End file.
